Medians and Curves
by Shylee Taregan
Summary: Subject to starvation, hatred, and abuse, young Harry Potter is finally left, beaten and alone, in an alleyway. Given no other choice, Dumbledore must put Harry in the care of his last remaining relative, his father, Severus Snape.
1. Arc I: Aberre

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

Subjected to starvation, abuse, hatred, and cruelty at a very young age, the young Harry Potter is finally left, beaten and alone, in an alleyway. Given no other choice, Dumbledore must put Harry in the care of his only living relative, his father, Severus Snape.

ooo

**Author's Note. **In response to the Severitus Challenge, and a firm and unyielding need to be included in Potions and Snitches's esteemed assemblage of authors. And also because my heartstring's were torn by the full scope and picture of child abuse.

**Disclaimer.** No copyright infringement intended. The characters, setting, etc. belong to the talented Mrs. Rowling. I own the plot (barely). The sentiment it entails is the reader's.

**Thank you.** Gillian Middleton, for unknowingly being my inspiration, and S.L.S., for never going that far.

ooo

**Arc I: **_**aberro, aberre, aberrui, aberritus: to wander, to deviate, to escape.**_

The five-year-old boy whimpered quietly to himself as he pulled the remains of the tattered and torn sweatshirt, a cast-off of his whale of a cousin, off of the bleeding lacerations on his back. Though he tried defiantly to hold it back, a single tear escaped his glazed eyes and rolled down a dirt-and-blood-smattered cheek. He felt another slide down from his other eye and his breath hitched. He felt the fire in his lungs meet the scream of his hurt and he felt himself suffocating. Like shattered glass, the tears broke free of his hold and coursed down his face. He gave up trying to pull off the shirt and instead curled into as small a ball as he could make himself, his back to the locked cupboard door.

He hadn't meant to disrupt them. But he had needed the bathroom very badly. And, not matter how hard he had tried, he couldn't explain to his aunt and uncle how the cupboard door had come unlocked. He guiltily remembered how he had willed it to be unlocked so that he could just use the lavatory, and he had promised himself that he would be quick, so that his aunt and uncle's guests wouldn't notice the little boy darting upstairs and back down.

But they had noticed. Mr. Crenshaw was the first to notice the dirty, green-eyed child trying to walk, unnoticed, down the hall and up the stairs. Harry remembered all too well what had occurred.

"_Oh?" Mr. Crenshaw said, stopped Vernon Dursley at the punch line of a joke that was the furthest thing from funny. Petunia Dursley and Anna Crenshaw looked up as well, neither of the Crenshaw's catching Vernon's brief change of color and bloated eyes at the sight of his nephew._

"_And what's this?" Mrs. Crenshaw asked, standing up. "You never told us that you had another son, Petunia…" _

"_That's…erm…I mean, he's not my son, Anna," Petunia said through pursed horse's lips. "He's my late sister's. He's been living under our care since she and her husband died."_

"_Oh?" Anna said, mimicking her husband's earlier sentiment. "Why on earth is he wearing that drab old thing? And why is he so dirty? Petunia?" The woman turned to the rod-thin woman, prim eyebrows arched in amazement. _

"_Come here, dear boy," Mr. Crenshaw said in wonder. Harry dared not look at his aunt and uncle. He knew he would have to pay for this later, so he stayed where he was, poised on the first step upwards, one hand on the banister and his eyes on the Crenshaws'. _

"_I say, Vernon," Mr. Crenshaw murmured, "the chap doesn't look more than four years old. Surely he can speak?" _

"'_Course he can, 'course he can," Vernon rumbled, his rising temper continuing to go unnoticed. "Listen to the nice man, boy," the ruddy-faced uncle told his nephew, beady eyes threatening him from a distance and promising punishment if he didn't obey. Of course, he was going to be punished anyway for showing his face at all. But the five-year-old boy slowly walked forward, trying hard not to trip on his overlarge jeans, his face on the floor. The plastic, too-big glasses that Vernon had gotten at the cheapest possible price with prescription kept sliding down the boy's small nose, and he quickly pushed it up, the large sleeves of the sweatshirt hindering the action. _

_As he came level with the four adults, he looked up into Mr. Crenshaw's face, too terrified of looking toward his aunt and uncle. _

"_How old is he, Vernon?" Anna Crenshaw asked, looking as if she dearly wanted to touch the boy's shoulder to prove he wouldn't fall to pieces right then; that was how fragile the poor waif looked. _

"_The boy's five," Petunia said shortly, her grip on her teacup turning her knuckles white. Five was too young of the boy to notice his aunt and uncle's disdain of using his real name. "Boy" was all they ever referred to him as, and if it wasn't for school, he might have forgotten his real name altogether._

"_My word," Anna breathed. "He's so small, Petunia. Why is he that small?" _

"_It's just the clothes, I assure you," Petunia said, appalled to even the implication that not everything in her home was impeccably normal. "Forgive the intrusion, Anna, dear, I'll just send him back to his room for now. Come, boy, let us have adult time." _

_With her back to the Crenshaws, she gave Harry the most murderous look she could muster, which was enough to scare the five-year-old boy into forgetting how badly he needed to go to the bathroom, enough to make him let his bladder go right there. _

_Feeling the warmth trickle down his pants, he burst into tears amid Vernon and Petunia Dursley's cries of outrage, and Anna and Mr. Crenshaw's suspicious yells…_

Harry had been forced into the bathroom and was locked there by his vicious-looking uncle while his aunt tried to placate the Crenshaws. Harry sat in the corner of the tub, the curtain drawn in an effort to hide, listening to the mingled shouts and threats of lawsuit and child services. It wasn't long before the front door slammed and Harry heard a car speed away down the street. Something had lodged in Harry's throat as two ominous pairs of footsteps made their way up the steps. Harry's frail five-year-old memory blocked out what happened after Vernon and Petunia appeared at the door, Vernon with a long leather strap wrapped around his right fist.

Hours later, when Harry came back to himself, he was in the cupboard, face down, covered with blood and bruises and his own urine and tears.

He was unable to think, unable to feel. He was too young to hate, too young to realize that he wasn't a freak, that he far from deserved his treatment. Four years had taught the young boy that he was unworthy of polite society, that he would wind up like his parents, no good and poor and dead. But Harry hoped; he hoped like only a small child could hope. He hoped that someone would help make it stop, that someone would save him. He didn't care who it was. Even if he was unworthy, he wanted to believe he was worthy enough for that. Just safety. That was all. He neither wanted nor needed anything more. He did not believe he deserved anything more. He did not believe he deserved anything. If his own family could treat him so, then perhaps he had done some inexcusable thing, and Harry knew he could never make them stop their brutality.

He deserved it.

Try as he might, the little boy was unable to sleep until the pain exhausted his tiny body. He fell into a fitful, nightmare-haunted asleep, soiled and in pain, terrified and alone, in the little cupboard under the stairs.

ooo

**Author's Note. **Child abuse is a very serious problem in today's world, more serious than most people want to admit. The authoress Brightfeather said much the same at the beginning of her incredible fic, _True Confessions_. Here I quote her in an effort to raise awareness.

If you or someone you know knows of a child who is being abused, visit http // www . Kidsafe - caps. org / report. html (remove spaces) for your local reporting hotline (US only), or call 1-800-4-A-CHILD in North America. In the UK, call Childline at 0800 1111.


	2. Arc II: Carere

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

**Author's Note.** So I was COMPLETELY overwhelmed with the reviews that I received for the prelude to this story. And though it's not much, it's a whole lot for me, and I love and appreciate your reviews immensely. So thank you all who reviewed, and thank you more for understanding the message that I'm trying to spread about child abuse. One of my reviewers asked if I had some background experience with the subject, and I replied that I have, though I won't say in what way I've been in contact with it.

I hope that I've replied to those who reviewed in with questions; if not, please feel free to contact me again and I'll be happy to answer you.

And I'd also like to mention that I've been C2ed to four different communities, which I consider one of the highest honors an author can be given: **Abused Harry; P&S New, Abandoned Story Watch; Sword of the Shadow; **and** The Brilliant and Addictive.** Thank you so much.

**Disclaimer. **As you all well know, I do not own Harry Potter at all.

Hope you're still with me. Now brace yourselves and let's go.

ooo

**Arc II: **_**careo, carere, carui: to be without, to absent oneself from**_

When Harry again awoke, he stolidly registered that he was sitting in his uncle's shed on a decrepit excuse for a mattress on the tool bench. His uncle, sitting in front of him, held him by the shoulders with rubber gloves, but only barely, as if disgusted to be touching him at all, even through an inch of rubber. He realized his aunt was behind him and murmuring something to her uncle in a fierce, revolted whisper.

"…so hard on his back, what will his teacher's say? And then that skinny wife of Crenshaw's…" she was saying.

"We won't send him to school then," his uncle said shortly, glaring at her over the top of Harry's head. "And we'll just explain to the Crenshaws that he was sick, blasted boy." He seemed then to notice that Harry was awake and glared at him with his beady little eyes, buried behind fattened cheeks and his giant walrus mustache. "Look, boy. You're not going to school until this lot goes away. Stupid boy." He slapped the side of Harry's face to Petunia's sudden onslaught of whispers about leaving more marks on him.

"The longer he stays out of school, the more suspicious they'll be!" she growled at him. Harry realized she was cleaning the cuts on his back, with a brutality that made him cry out. "Oh shut up, boy, it's not killing you."

Harry bit his lip and tried not to make a sound.

"Don't know why we send him to school anyway, unnecessary expense," his uncle spat, no longer holding Harry up now that he was perfectly capable of holding himself up. Regardless, he swayed slightly, though righted himself as well as he could when Petunia scraped a particularly fierce gash from Vernon's leather belt.

"…beat the scum into unconsciousness, Vernon…" his aunt was now saying. "Besides, he's already been there, they'll question why he's no longer attending if we just stop sending him there…"

"Can't give him up for adoption then?" Vernon asked, eyeing the boy with something worse than utter repugnance. "Never quite understood why you took the snot in for your no-good sister and her freak husband…"

Harry felt their adult conversation slide in and out of his hearing and he struggled not to listen, not to feel, but the tears escaped his eyes though he squeezed them shut. He wanted to cover his face, to hide from their ministrations and their glares and their words, but he was so tired, and he hurt too much, he just wanted to disappear, to go away.

For five years old, Harry was remarkably attuned to what went on around him. He had started kindergarten last year with his fat, cruel cousin Dudley, and Dudley had quickly gotten most of the four- and then five-year-olds into his little gang. All they ever did was taunt Harry, doing everything from throwing rocks at the boy to forcing him to eat paste and then drink toilet water. And Harry endured it, because it was all he could ever do; he had purposely lost his voice, having learned that silence was the best way to avoid being tormented. His teachers believed him to be autistic or mentally challenged, and said as much on his monthly report cards. His lack of speech and his introverted, friendless attitude merely concerned the best of his teachers and went ignored by his worst teachers, accustomed as they were to spoiled, haughty children who preferred not to speak to lowly creatures like their teachers, about whose low wages they spent lifetimes listening to their parents sneer.

At the beginning of the school year, all the kindergarteners were required to take vision and hearing tests. Harry had received a note home informing his guardians of his pressing need for prescription glasses. All that it had merited was a beating over what Vernon continually referred to as the boy's "inherent retardation" and "needless expense."

A few months later, Harry was invited to tea by the Dursleys' neighbor, the batty old Mrs. Figg. While Petunia went over to apologize for the boy's absence, Vernon beat the child for showing his face to any of the neighbors.

And so Harry kept his silence and hid his face. It was his best defense against his spoiled cousin's taunting and his uncle's mad brutality and his aunt's sickened cruelty.

He was permitted to use the bathroom twice a day, and though he received one meal per day, he was required to make it count. All it ever encompassed was a few pieces of moldy bread, a glass of stale water, and some leftovers from the past week, if he was lucky. Mostly he went hungry, and his more attentive teachers at school noticed his hoarding of the school lunch, always making sure to punish him for trying to hide a peanut butter sandwich in his pack, always believing him willing to get back at his cousin for some inane prank or other. He was very tiny for a five-year-old child, and at the end of his kindergarten year in a few weeks' time, he would again be hidden in the airless, overpoweringly hot, spider-infested cupboard under the stairs.

Every time they closed and locked him in the darkness amid his cast-off rags and dirty laundry and broken toys that Dudley no longer wanted, he knew, somehow in his child's mind, that they hoped that he would die quietly in there, or at least disappear. And though one would expect that he would hope the same, he was far too young for such a sentiment. Rather, he cast his thoughts on the more hopeful of wishes: that one day he would be saved.

His good dreams consisted of a warm smile and the smell of sunrise; of green eyes like his own and rich red hair in a woman's face; of a bespectacled man with hair like Harry's own. They spoke his name and laughed at him, gave him something to hope for. His aunt and uncle consistently told him that they were no good people, and that he shouldn't aspire to be anything like them, or he would end up dead. It was the only thing Harry turned a deaf ear to; he refused to listen to them belittle his memory of the smiling woman and the laughing man. They were the only evidence he had that he had ever been loved. His persistent belief had earned him more than a few beatings from his outraged uncle and annoyed aunt, but it was the last thing he would let go. His aunt and uncle told him he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve anything, but they were the only things he did believe he deserved. And he kept his silent, watchful, haunted vigil for their return.

His only question was _when_.

ooo

"Who was it, Petunia?" Vernon Dursley asked his wife as she walked hesitatingly into the kitchen. Dudley was out at the Akrens' for luncheon, and the boy was still in his cupboard. He hadn't made a sound all day, though when Petunia checked to make sure he hadn't up and died in her otherwise pristine house – she couldn't have the acrid smell of death in there, could she? – he had stared at her with her hated sister's eyes and her freak of a husband's face.

Petunia, rather than immediately sit by her husband at the kitchen table, quickly made sure that the windows were shut tightly, the blinds drawn snugly over it, smothering the summer sunlight and drenching the kitchen in a brief darkness.

Vernon blinked at her as she sat beside him, leaning close, and, as if still afraid someone might overhear her, whispering, "That harlot Anna Crenshaw ordered an investigation," she told her husband, lips barely forming the words. Vernon stilled, his grip on the afternoon paper tightening in his gluttonous fists. He recalled all too well the scene that had occurred the week before when he had invited his colleague, Michael Crenshaw, for lunch. His blood still boiled at the reminder that that _freak_ had dared to come out – he never admitted how much it scared him that the lock had somehow come undone – and ruin it, destroying a perfect meeting. Particularly when that wench who was his wife, Anna Crenshaw, had started inquiring as to why the boy was so unhealthy-looking.

"Was that her who rang?" Vernon asked, his eyes still glued to the same spot on the paper, his lips hardly moving, an awesome feat for so plump a pair of lips.

"A detective," Petunia replied, her voice rising a pitch. "He's coming tomorrow afternoon to call."

"For that boy's sake?" Vernon growled. In his head he could already picture the headlines that they would make. His veins popped as he catalogued the damage that that stupid freak had caused, or would cause, once the detective came to call. The boy's lesions and bruises hadn't yet healed to the point that roughhousing and child's play could explain them away. So fiercely, in fact, had Vernon attacked the boy that he would probably bear a few scars to his dying day.

If Vernon Dursley ever felt the slightest twinge of guilt at the thought of harming his nephew in such an inhuman way, he never gave a clue. As he turned to his wife, a plan already forming in his head, he recalled the day they had discovered their worst mistake on their doorstep, and the letter that had been left with him.

"_To the Dursleys of Number Four, Privet Drive, I, Albus Dumbledore, a dear friend of James and Lily Potter, respectfully request that, in lieu of Lily Potter nee Evans's death two days previously, you take in her son, Harry James Potter, birthed 31__st__ July of last year. He is to remain in your care until he is of age, upon which the charms protecting you as well as he are lifted. As it is in your best interest to care for young Harry, I am hopeful that he will be treated with the utmost love and attention. Your humble servant, Albus Dumbledore."_

Though he had immediately wanted to give the child up to an orphanage, Petunia had somehow convinced him to keep the rat. Four years had passed since then, and Vernon Dursley was surer than ever before that it had been the worst mistake he and his family had ever made.

ooo

Later that night, after they had affirmed a sleepover for their son Dudley at the Akrens', Petunia and Vernon Dursley dressed in black and forced the sleeping Harry awake. All day, he had lain awake, drifting in and out of unconsciousness, soiled and starved after being ignored for almost twenty-four hours. The light from Vernon's flashlight was blinding as he was grabbed by the scruff of his neck and shoved ruthlessly into the hallway before his aunt and uncle. He stood still, petrified and only half-conscious, as his aunt grabbed his glasses and smashed them before stuffing them in a heavy-duty black garbage bag. She proceeded to grab the rest of the clothes and refuse from the cupboard and toss them into the bag as well. Had Harry been older, he would have realized that she was quickly destroying all evidence that he'd ever been there, for the cupboard was the only evidence that he existed.

Once that was finished, Petunia handed the bag to her husband and nodded firmly before disappearing upstairs without a backward glance. Petunia appeared again a moment later with a soiled gray sheet held as far away from his body as her skinny arms would allow. Pitilessly, she tore the clothes off of the boy and threw them into the bag that her husband knotted tightly. She then wrapped him from head to foot in the gray sheet and pointed to the door. The five-year-old walked toward it unquestioningly, tears already forming in his eyes as he stumbled slightly, unable to see without his glasses.

Together, the two Dursleys walked quietly as one to their car. Vernon propelled the bag into the trunk and then started the car as silently as it could be started, waiting impatiently as Petunia whisperingly ordered the boy to climb into the trunk. She closed the hood of the trunk anxiously, nearly catching his tiny fingers and either not noticing or not caring either way. She slid into the passenger's seat and her husband drove into the night. Neither of the Dursleys noticed that they were being watched.

An hour and a half later, Vernon pulled onto a dark, morbidly deserted street in the lesser part of London. The light under which he parked had been shattered by a vandal or some sort, and the remaining glass was scattered in all directions, plunging a circle ten feet in diameter into darkness. He shut off the car, his wife perusing the street with eyes that were trained to catch the slightest spec of dust in a gray-hued kitchen. With an affirming nod from Petunia, Vernon Dursley got out of the car and opened the trunk. His nephew looked up at him, bleary-eyed and naked but for the sheet. He grabbed the boy and lifted him by his arm, snatching up the bag with his free hand. Glancing left and right, he slammed the trunk closed and dragged the boy down a dark alley that, to any mere passersby, would go completely unnoticed – just as Vernon and Petunia had hoped it would be.

The stench was overwhelmingly odious, but Vernon, purple-faced, walked as quickly as his fat frame would allow, paying no heed to the soft, half-stifled sobs of the tiny boy behind him. At the far end of the alley, Vernon all but threw the boy into a pile of garbage. Harry winced as he felt something sharp cut into his side, but he bit his lip to keep from saying anything, waiting for the moment when his uncle would leave. For he knew that his uncle was leaving, and something told him that he would not come back. He seemed to realize that he was being abandoned, but his barely-developed five-year-old mind could not come to terms with it, and so didn't. The boy watched as his uncle threw the bag with all of his nephew's belongings into a dumpster and then walked away without a backward glance. Within moments, Harry heard the car start and speed away again.

He was alone.

He could not see and was all but blind in the dark without his glasses. Despite the summer season, the chill of night crept into his frail bones and attacked his immune system. He would get sick, though he did not know it yet. He glanced left and right, his mind conjuring up images of bogeymen and unseen monsters. Drawing the thin, raggedy sheet closer about his shoulders, he buried his face in his small hands and finally let the tears trace silver trails down his cheeks.

_He finally had the right to bleed. _

ooo

Back in Little Whinging, Surrey, an hour and a half earlier, Arabella Figg had rushed home as quickly as her ratty slippers and arthritic limbs would allow, grasped a handful of a sparkling green powder, and threw it wholly into her raging fireplace. The red fire turned green. Sticking her head into the green conflagration, she shouted, "Dumbledore's Office. Hogwarts!"

Her head spun and suddenly appeared in the fireplace of a very familiar study. The portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses stared at her curiously from their gilded frames amid the current headmaster's sparkling toys, but she paid them no mind. Dumbledore was nowhere in sight, which irritated the old woman. She glanced left and right, but saw no human life anywhere. She did, however, spot that brilliantly red phoenix of his. It stood on its perch with all the regality of a royal, and it was watching her with wise old eyes, waiting for her to deliver her message to it.

Being a squib did not detract from her wisdom and intelligence, nor her knowledge of the wizarding world. She stared directly into the bird's eyes and spoke as clearly and urgently as she would to any human being.

"Tell Dumbledore that they have removed the boy from his home. Things have been fishy in that household of late, I've always told Dumbledore what stupid people the Dursleys are, and I fear the worst for the boy's health. Tell him it's urgent that they inquire as to the boy's whereabouts immediately! I may be a squib but I'm not blind, you know!"

The bird seemed to nod at the old woman before taking flight and disappearing through the open window.

ooo

Dumbledore was, in fact, not at all that far away. He was sitting in the Three Broomsticks, conversing in a private booth with a probable candidate for the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor that year, when Fawkes appeared at the window, sitting sagely on the ground. His scarlet plumage guaranteed a nice amount of stares from late-night passersby, as well as fairly large amount of eye-catching, which is exactly what he required at the moment. Dumbledore, spotting it in his peripheral vision, excused himself politely and went out to meet his familiar.

Within moments of receiving his message, Dumbledore disapparated to Little Whinging without further ado. Upon reaching the empty house, his unusually keen senses went on high alert. He left the home and paid a visit to Arabella Figg. After a brief greeting, he sent a Patronus to his man in London, who would guarantee a search-and-rescue, seeing as his worst fears had been confirmed.

"Barely seen hide nor hair of the boy 'till September," she told him when asked. "Damn people never let the boy outside. When I finally did see him, Albus…" she shook her head. "Skinny as a rail and pale as night is dark! Blasted sodding bastards! And the Boy Who Lived to boot! Don't know who they're dealing with, I guarantee it…why, if I wasn't a squib, I'd give the rest of my life to Azkaban just to have my way with those vile muggles…"

"Arabella, please," Dumbledore murmured, hands steepled below his chin, eyes on a place far from the room. "Your language will not help the matter."

"I know, Albus, but certainly the boy's malnutrition and obvious neglect is reason enough to take him away from that blasted family? And don't get me started on the rumors!"

"If they haven't disposed of him themselves," Dumbledore said, so quietly that the old woman almost did not catch it. But she did, and she stopped mid-rant to turn to him with the widest of eyes, mouth slack.

"But…Albus…the Boy Who Lived! Harry Potter!" she breathed. "Surely they wouldn't dare harm him? A boy of but five years? Their own _family_?"

Dumbledore seemed to come back to himself and gave Arabella such a grave look that she shivered internally at the briefly exposed grief and cold rage. Rarely had she seen the powerful wizard so angry. He angered wisely, but this was a fury far deeper than any simple anger.

"It is at times like these, Arabella," Dumbledore murmured, "that I believe it quite permissible to say that perhaps Lord Voldemort doesn't have quite so wrong an idea after all."

And while Mrs. Figg was left to stew over the implications of his bold statement, Dumbledore stood to receive a wolf-shaped Patronus. The silver wolf's mouth opened and a hoarse but determined voice issued from it.

"We'll find him."

ooo

Upon returning to Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sought out his Potions Master, cornering him in his dungeon workspace.

"Severus," the old headmaster quietly began, "I fear the time has come."

ooo

**Author's Note.** This chapter made me cry. I'm serious. I was crying as a wrote it, and I felt horrified that I was writing it. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of liberation and release -- for Harry.


	3. Arc III: Invenire

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

**Author's Note. **Okay. You guys completely rock my socks into a whole new dimension. I've never seen so much positive feedback! I love you all.

Another quick reminder: school starts for me on the fifth (I'm sorry for those who started in August. I don't think I'd be able to survive if I started that early) and I've written up to chapter four in their completion. In order to maximize the time I have to write and beta my own story, in addition to **100 Things **and **Synergy** (which I'm still convinced doesn't get remotely enough attention), I will be updating this once ever one or two weeks. It might take a while for the story to finish, but nothing in the universe would stop me but death. At any rate, I do not plan very many chapters for **Medians**. More than likely, there will be about ten, with a short sequel to tie up any loose ends. One never knows.

Right, so I just wanted to make sure of something. A lot of you reviewed in with questions/comments/concerns that I replied to. I just want to confirm that everyone got my replies? If not, tell me and I'll reply to you in the next chapter. There was one reviewer who goes by the name **protoype android** who left no reply link and, seeing as I have no way of reaching him/her, I'm going to post the reply at the end of this chapter. I sincerely hope nobody minds this, as it is quite a lengthy reply to quite a lengthy review, but it was one that I felt the unyielding need to reply to.

So, C2 Updates: In addition to the other four communities, **Medians** has had the pleasure to join the ranks of **An Insomniac's Treasures,** **Gabbywolfs Stories, Identity, **and** Suitcase Full of Dreams**. As I said, it is the highest honor. I am incredulous and pleased.

My final reminder: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters therein. I dabble in the universe Mrs. Rowling created, and that is all.

Okay then. That's enough of that. Onward.

ooo

**Arc III: **_**invenio, invenire, inveni, inventus: to come upon, to fine, to discover**_

The weary-looking brown-haired man's face was lined with a strange combination of fear, fury, and grief. Dumbledore's Patronus had only said that he feared the boy's guardians had done their worst and left him somewhere in London, and that he needed to be found before any more harm came to him. The message had awakened old feelings he had thought quelled for a time, but four years did little to hide his anguish over losing two of his closest friends. He had questioned time and again why he could not take care of James and Lily's son, but Dumbledore had been adamant that he live with his aunt and uncle.

_Look where your wisdom got us now, old man_, Remus thought darkly, then immediately regretted it. He knew Dumbledore had thought it the wisest course of action, and Remus understood, to an extent, the basic idea of what the powerful sorcerer's spells were meant to do. Blood sang to blood; Harry Potter was safe where his mother's blood resided, safe from those who wished to do him harm. He could not blame the wizard for being human and making human mistakes.

Neither he nor anyone else, however, wanted to see him make mistakes. Especially when it was a five-year-old boy who paid for it.

Dumbledore never took into account the deep-seated enmity that Petunia Dursley had for her sister and anything to do with the woman. Granted, he probably never knew about it until it was too late to do much more than hope for the best. But Remus Lupin, like many others, had always questioned why Dumbledore needed to see the best in everyone.

Then again, if Dumbledore wasn't Dumbledore, Remus Lupin would have found himself very much poor and alone.

With a sigh, he resumed his search. Having very few people to choose from at such an hour and on so secret a mission, he had enlisted the help of Hestia Jones, Arthur Weasley, and Dedalus Diggle, all easily trustworthy friends of Albus Dumbledore's. The three met Remus in the Leaky Cauldron and, given their instructions, promptly disapparated to different parts of London to begin the search. Given that the Dursleys weren't gone for more than four hours, Harry couldn't be more than two hours from Little Whinging. Still a fair distance, but definitely not out of the country.

He had given himself the dingiest part of London to search first, hoping his werewolf-enhanced senses would only aid him in finding the little boy. He turned down a dark street, reminding himself that he was a wizard and could easily defend himself against something as simple as a muggle mugger or anything of the like. But he didn't need more than a few second's of walking for his hackles to rise and a familiar, albeit different, scent to overpower all the other smells of the dingy garbage, rotting sewage, and human excrement strewn across the general area.

He followed his senses toward an alleyway so dark and narrow that he could have easily missed it had he not been looking for it. His ire rose as he realized that that was exactly what the stupid muggles had wanted. Nobody would think to look for a five-year-old boy with no family, no past, and no future. Nobody would care enough. No sodding muggles, anyway.

Remus felt a very wolf-like growl escape his throat, but he quickly suppressed it, hoping that it wouldn't scare the boy. He quietly lit his wand and cast it ahead, hoping that the boy was still alive, fearing the worst.

At the far end of the alley, black garbage bags were piled high against the three buildings. There was a dumpster on his left, but that was overflowing as well, and the smell of the general compost was almost painful to Remus's delicate senses, particularly so soon after the full moon. Still, nothing in the world short of the Dark Lord himself could have distracted him enough from the sight that his eyes finally set upon.

There, huddled between two large garbage bags and beneath a dirty gray sheet, was a little boy who was staring at him with wide green eyes.

Lily's eyes.

Remus felt his breath hitch in remembrance, in mourning, aching in a way he rarely allowed himself to ache. Those were Lily's eyes looking out of James's face. This was Harry Potter, the son of Lily Evans and James Potter, two amazing sorcerers and his best friends. This was the Boy Who Lived, Dumbledore's secret weapon for the future fight against a figure thought dead for four years, whom Dumbledore almost guaranteed was still alive. This was a five-year-old boy with the eyes of a fifty-year-old man, a battered and bloody body, a tearstained face, a legacy and a legend.

Remus felt a tear escape his eye that he hadn't realized he'd been holding back. He fell to his knees before the child.

"Harry?" he whispered hoarsely. "Oh, Harry…"

He gathered the little boy into his arms, ignoring the slight flinch at his contact, though it pained him deeply to see it. He lifted the boy with an ease that frightened him, his brow furrowed with alarm and a darkening rage as he cast a Patronus with a brief message to Dumbledore.

He was taking this boy to Hogwarts, no matter what the Headmaster deemed.

ooo

The silver wolf soared into the Headmaster's office and landed before the two men who sat there. Both the wise old Headmaster, in his throne-like chair, and the dark-haired fellow before him, his head in his hand, turned to stare at it.

It opened its mouth. "I have him."

ooo

Remus sent another Patronus to Arthur, trusting him to tell the others that the boy had been found, before disapparating to a very quiet Hogsmeade. He hurried along the street, barely stopping, to the looming castle that was Hogwarts, trying not to let his tears flow again.

In his mind's eye, he listed all of the injuries he could see, his hatred of the muggles mounting as his inventory grew longer. He thought of the child's silence since he had been found, of his limp response to Remus's ministrations, as if he no longer cared what happened to him. It was overwhelmingly frightening, to believe that a five-year-old boy could think such thoughts. His breath was ragged, his limbs not responding. His eyes had long closed, but Remus knew he was still alive. Blood had seeped through the gray blanket, and Remus bitterly wondered how long he had been in that disgusting alleyway with only a blanket to guard him from the world.

He didn't realize it just then, but he promised redemption for the boy, in whatever form it took.

No child deserved this.

ooo

Poppy Pomfrey awaited the brown-haired man at the gates of Hogwarts. On either side of her were Argus Filch and Minerva McGonagall. Minerva was to escort Remus to the Headmaster's, while Poppy took the boy directly to the infirmary to be treated, Filch remaining to lock the gates and the front doors behind them all.

Remus delivered the half-awake boy directly into Pomfrey's arms. Two house-elves appeared at her side, and she immediately rattled off preparations that needed to be made before she arrived. With twin nods, the house-elves disapparated. Remus and Minerva walked at a brisk and worried pace in the opposite direction of the mediwitch. He barely heard the password to the headmaster's office – Fettering Fitters – and he was suddenly in Dumbledore's office again, waxing nostalgic on a time when his only reasons for coming in here were to be congratulated on another impressive piece of work, or as one of the Marauders' cohorts in their ingenious and troublesome schemes.

Times change. Other things become more important.

Other _people_.

Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape were already there, and Remus had to wonder why his enemy from his school years was present. He knew, of course, that the man had been the Potions Master of Hogwarts for a few years, perhaps three at most. But he did not know what purpose he served for being in the room at that particular moment.

It thus astonished him when the first one to speak was Snape, and the first thing he asked was, "Is he with Poppy?"

Remus stared at his longtime enemy and rival. He had been something of a model student, and had always been slightly miffed when Severus had beaten him in classes, though by far none were better in Potions than Severus Snape. He still could not figure out why Dumbledore trusted the man who had, only briefly before Voldemort's fall, switched sides. He figured it wasn't his place to know, but that never stopped him from wondering.

"Yes," he told him when Severus made to rise from his chair, agitated at the silence. "She's taking care of him as we speak."

Snape gave him a nod before slouching back in his seat, his hand covering his eyes again. Remus looked at Dumbledore; the old wizard nodded at Minerva, who conjured another seat for Remus before leaving the room.

"Thank you, Remus," Dumbledore said softly, his blue eyes infinitely sad.

"James and Lily's son," Remus said weakly, shaking his head. He failed to notice the slight stiffening of the man beside him. "I can't believe it."

"Nor can I," Dumbledore said with a nod. He rose from his chair, as if restless. "But I assure you that they will pay for their transgressions against Harry. Minerva is making the proper arrangements as we speak."

"The ministry will be involved?" Remus asked, dubious. The ministry was still, after five years, trying to climb back on its feet after its near downfall when You-Know-Who was in power.

"No," Dumbledore said shortly. "They'll want to take the boy into their custody, something we cannot allow at all costs. He was safe while he was in the custody of his relatives, but it appears that not all muggles are as accepting as one would like to believe." His tone had taken on a very bitter quality, his back to the two younger men, and Remus shivered in the sudden cold that seemed to overtake the room. It was emanating from the older wizard, Remus realized in awe.

"No," Remus repeated slowly. "Then where will he go, Dumbledore? He has no other living relatives."

"Ah, Remus," Dumbledore murmured, turning to face him, the chill disappearing as he did. "This is the moment where someone in this room must tell the truth." For some reason, he was staring at Severus Snape.

Remus arched an eyebrow. "What? Who?" He also looked at the lanky-haired man. Severus Snape was no older than he was, tall and menacing unlike his younger self, with greasy hair hanging in strings around his face. His hooked nose carried a quality of elegance that Remus had always ignored but was very much aware of. His coal-black eyes, which normally peered from beneath constantly narrowed eyebrows, were at that very moment hidden beneath his long, calloused, slim-fingered hands. Remus had always likened him to an overgrown bat, and was certain that he was neither the first nor the last to do so.

Perhaps Dumbledore's stare was potent enough to wheedle a message into Snape's mind – Remus was well aware of how accomplished a Legilimens both men were – but at his continuing gaze, Snape looked up and away, meeting no one's eyes.

"Severus," Dumbledore murmured. "Would you like me to tell Remus?"

Severus gave an almost imperceptible nod, confusing Remus all the more. But Dumbledore nodded as well before settling back into his seat. He conjured a pot of tea and three cups, charming the pot to pour itself as he watched Severus over steepled hands.

Once Remus had a cup warming his hands (Snape refused to touch his, and Dumbledore left his to cool), Dumbledore sighed and began to speak.

"Remus, there are some secrets that one must keep to preserve the sanctity of a relationship," Dumbledore told him quietly. Remus listened. "Please remember that all parties involved are quite as human as you and I, and are just as liable to mistakes as the next man, be he wizard or muggle.

"Three weeks before Harry Potter was born, Lily requested my presence in her home while James was running important errands for the Order. Excuse me if I might lack a certain sense of humility when I say that I, being such a close friend, agreed to see her, and rather felt I owed it to her after what I had done. It was in the Potters' sitting room that a very pregnant Lily Potter nee Evans told me that her soon-to-be-born son was not, in fact, James's son at all."

Remus felt his hackles rise and his stomach sink all at once, in much the same fashion as when he felt that something was about to go very wrong, or he was about to get very bad news. Except that something had already gone wrong – Harry, not James's son? And why did Dumbledore owe Lily anything? Had the old man finally lost his mind?

Even as he asked this question in his head, he knew he was grasping for nothing. His world had been shattered several times - when Sirius killed Peter and went to Azkaban; when James and Lily died; when he found Harry only an hour ago. He did not think he could bear having it broken again; the knowledge that Harry might not be James's son left too many implications to the imagination. So Remus decided to block them for now. He would listen to what Dumbledore had to say. Whether or not he would believe it was too much for him to think of at the moment. He felt infinitely weary and wary.

Dumbledore's eyes were serious and somber. Remus read grief and regret in those sad, sad eyes. "Eight and a half months previous to our meeting, I had sent James on a very dangerous mission. Though James was by all accounts a very skilled young man, there was still the very real chance that he would not survive the task I set him and, indeed, it almost killed him. It was this that I owed Lily – nearly stealing her life and love."

Though Remus wanted to know what that mission could have been, his mind was still reeling from the idea that Harry might not be James's son. How could that be when even at five years old, he was the mirror image his father, only with his mother's eyes? How could that little boy, with James's black hair, be anyone's son other than James's?

"I won't tell you what I had required him to do," Dumbledore said, as if reading his mind, "but it was treacherous and final enough that James made sure his last will and testament was written, and that his wife knew the scope and danger of what he had to do.

"In fact, so distraught was she, that she sought another man's comfort."

"Impossible," Remus said abruptly. He realized he was shaking his head and stopped. "No. Lily was devoted to James, and James to Lily. No. There's no way that she would do that to him." He did not notice Severus staring at the old headmaster, perplexed.

Dumbledore eyed him sadly. "It was not just any man that she turned to, Remus," he said quietly. "He had been her best friend once, and it was to him that she went. She admitted that she had only been overcome with the pressing need to see him, to see if there was any way she could reconcile with him. In light of the fleetingness of life, one finds that it is hard to face death with regrets chaining them to the world of the living. The idea of James's death was so daunting, I believe, that the need arose to set a years-old quarrel to rights."

This thought made far more sense than Lily simply running to another man, especially since the love of her life, her husband, had possibly been facing his death.

"The man in question was, at the time, in the employ of Voldemort."

Remus stared at the old man and thought, guiltily but somehow fiercely, that some humans make more mistakes than others.

"The man in question," Dumbledore repeated, "is seated to your left."

ooo

Later that night, in a room prepared by the Hogwarts house-elves far from the dungeons, Remus Lupin contemplated what he had been told. Shock still overrode his initial reactions – or what he thought his initial reactions would be – to such an allegation against Lily's fidelity. He had known her almost his entire life; he had known James just as long.

But he had also known Severus, and, though he tried his hardest not to, his unconscious mind began drawing similarities between the boy and Severus.

The Princes, however, had been purebloods just like the Potters, and all pureblooded families were related. Even Remus's pureblooded side would leave some mark on the boy. He absolutely, almost bodily refused to see any connection between Severus Snape and Harry Potter. If Lily had truly committed the crime she had, she had come clean, even if it had been after her dying day. And even if Lily and James were not the true parents by blood, they were the true parents in every other way. They had adored Harry, and if Lily ever felt guilty when she thought of the night and the circumstances under which she had conceived her son, it was overridden by her love for the little boy that she shared, in every other way, with her dear husband.

His mind reeled, however, with the implications of Severus Snape being the boy's actual father.

Until Harry was well enough, Dumbledore could not perform the simple _Parensitus_ charm to determine the boy's blood parents – for Remus knew, in his heart, who the _true_ parents were. Dumbledore had been told by Lily, and Snape had done the deed – he was not sure if he should be angry at Snape or Lily or both of them, or if he should let sleeping demons lie. Remus needed proof, however, that the pride and joy of the Potters had never been their pride and joy. He did not want to regret spending the past four years of his life going over everything he should have said to Lily and James about their son, worrying about the little boy they had left to the wretched world of muggles. He wanted to be sure that the child belonged to one of them.

He wondered if James had known. But, had Remus been in James's shoes and his wife had given him that knowledge, would he have accepted his wife's son with another man? And not just any man – a follower of the Dark Lord he had pledged and given his life to defeat? His longtime enemy?

No. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to do so.

But he wasn't giving much credit to James and his capacity to love. Even if Harry was Snape and Lily's son, Harry had James's messy black hair and James's regal nose, and James's poor eyesight. Blood might have separated James from his son, but not love. Love worked its own magic in ways that not even the wisest of wizards could completely comprehend.

Remus wondered, then, if Sirius had known. If perhaps the knowledge had driven him insane when he turned on James and Lily. Thinking of Sirius still left a bitter taste in his mouth and in his chest, where a deep wound aged him by decades. Sirius Black, the best friend of James Potter, the godfather of Harry Potter, one-fourth of the Marauders. Had he known?

Somehow, Remus did not think he knew. And, seeing as Remus was the last person on earth who would tell him, he preferred not to think along those particular lines.

Somewhere in the castle, a stern headmistress was calling in Dumbledore's friends in the Auror department of the Ministry to deliver justice to a small family of muggles. Somewhere, a young man was wrought again with feelings and memories he had long buried, things unearthed by his mentor's words and the responsibility that now lay in wait for him. Somewhere, an old man cursed his ill wisdom and stored his need to feel the child's pain, his regret, his utter failure to protect such a precious thing. Somewhere, a little boy was healing under a mediwitch's careful care.

And though he did not speak, there he was able to cry.

ooo

**Author's Note**. Another chapter that made me go weak in the tear sockets.

Review, if you please. Tell me what you think. And I'm in need of a beta-reader, so I'd love to take any offers. Thank you.

Here is the reply that I had no other way to convey:

A reviewer by the name of **prototype android **did not leave a reply link and so I was unable to reply to his/her extensive review. If you are reading this now, my dear, then here is your reply. Your words are an incredible breath of fresh air. I will not lie when I say that I was flattered to no end by your comments on my writing style, but regardless of how I feel, I'm glad that someone sees child abuse the way I do, as realistic, horrifying, unbelievable, indescribable occurrence that happens more often than people will readily admit. I'm afraid I've never read "A Child Called It," though I've heard of it and now that you mention it, I'll make a note of checking it out the next time I'm in B&N.

When I read what you wrote next, I took a deep breath. My younger brother has the same kind of autism so I'm well-versed in the subject. I want, firstly, to apologize for insulting you if you were at all insulted by my general term of autism. You, however, hit the nail on the proverbial head; I only meant to portray Harry's teachers' incomprehension as to the fact that he is being abused and thus reacts in this way. I did purposely misuse the term to draw attention to the fact that it does happen; the people who are meant to pay the most attention are the ones who are among the first to relegate the situation by pretending it's really something else. I once heard a story in the news about a little girl who was rather withdrawn in school, but her teachers and the adults in her life recommended doctors for her "condition," attributing it to something that was easier to explain. The little girl was later found to have been abused by her father. I apologize again for throwing the term around and I should know that one must be careful with how one phrases things. I thank you in the utmost, however, for pointing it out to me.

And, yes, I am most definitely continuing. Your labeling of my story has my heart swelling with gratitude. Thank you so much for your lengthy review and I hope we can correspond in the future.


	4. Arc IV: Renovare

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

**Author's Note.** Current C2s (again, an honor that I must make note of): **Abused Harry**;** An Insomniac's Treasures**;** Gabbywolfs Treasures**;** Identity; P&S new, abandoned story watch**;** Rising each time we fall**;** Suitcase Full of Dreams**;** Sword of the Shadow**; **The Assassin's Den**; **The Brilliant and the Addictive; **and **Good Harry Stories**.

This story has currently reached 3,642 views. I'm so proud.

I must give a hearty thank-you to **Aldavinur**, for noticing something that no one else seemed to get or did note make not of in their review. This will not help that much, but the truth will be revealed soon enough, my dear.

Thank you all for your reviews and kind words.

I declaim my lack of ownership as per the Harry Potter-verse.

And here's your chapter.

ooo

**Arc IV: **_**renovo, renovare, renovavi: to renew, to restore, to repair**_

The morning dawned bright and chill. It was an unusually cold day, though the sun had already painted golden towers on the green grounds of the silent castle. School had let out only a few days previously, and most of the teachers were off on holiday. The only sign that there was life was the breakfast smoke puffing up from the small cabin that belonged to the gameskeeper, and the trees that shifted with more than just the beginning vestiges of summer's wind.

Remus Lupin stepped outside the castle, eyes scanning the horizon in an effort to simultaneously wake himself up and shut his brain down. The cold ensured that he was quite awake in no time, but Remus found that very little could distract him. He had stayed wakeful most of the night thinking over the year before Lily and James had died, trying to pinpoint a moment when he should have realized, should have seen. Had Lily ever implied, in her mannerisms or her words, that Harry was a child born of an unfaithful tryst? Had she ever even tried to mention it to her husband?

Remus snarled at himself. Lily had been a good woman. She had made a mistake. Even good men and women made mistakes.

He should know.

ooo

Minerva McGonagall paced her otherwise silent office impatiently as she waited for the owl or the Patronus to return, whichever was quickest. She had tried to floo the message, but her correspondent was not present. She was left to other means of communication. Dumbledore had requested that she deal with the matter with as few people and as discreetly as possible. None in the Ministry were to become aware of the fact that their precious Boy Who Lived had been moved from his place of residency, and they were not to be in any way informed that said residency had been a place of horrors for the child for the past four years.

The Ministry of Magic had been a stumbling, drunken effigy of power since the initial rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his Death Eaters. The general public's trepidations and paramount alarm had given the Ministry little in the ways of public order. Aurors had been stretched to the breaking point, many having to be pulled straight from school without going through their preliminary training. Wizards and witches had been kidnapped and killed left and right, some of the most powerful disappearing at the most crucial of times. Public morale had been low enough that a chaotic upheaval was in the making. Many still said that, had the Dark Lord not been destroyed that night in October of 1981, there was no question as to the state of affairs in the present day. Lord Voldemort would have reigned supreme. The Dark uprising had indicated acute and tremendous flaws in the system that were to the present day still being remedied.

A silver Patronus soared into the room in the shape of an extremely large swan. Dumbledore had told her to gather the few credible Aurors he trusted in order to ensure justice be served for the boy's behalf. Given the extent of the damages wrought on the tiny child, Minerva would not have minded spending the rest of her life in Azkaban for exacting her own kind of revenge on the muggles.

Something told her that her esteemed colleague and friend thought along the same lines.

The swan landed gracefully on the floor and opened its mouth. "Proudfoot, Savage, and I will call on the muggles' place of residency tomorrow night."

McGonagall watched impassively as the silver swan faded into mist and disappeared on the gentle breeze that snuck in through the open window. Janus Savage, Diana Griffin, and Proteus Proudfoot were three exceptionally skilled Aurors who served as three of Dumbledore's contacts within the Auror Department of the Ministry of Magic. They were also good and loyal friends of the headmaster's, and for that reason Minerva trusted them to exact the kind of punishment the muggles were worthy of.

ooo

Many miles away, three heads bent over their books in search of the rules that defined an Auror's jurisdiction over muggle guardians of wizarding children concerning infractions against them.

ooo

Severus Snape bent his head over the cauldron, breathing in the titillating fumes that enveloped the dark dungeon in a heady blue mist. His greasy shoulder-length black hair hung lank about his face, his eyes closed, his calloused hands gripping the side of the table he leaned over. His hooked nose was inches from the potion's surface, though he was very careful not to touch it. It would not do to taint the potion with the oils of his sallow human skin, not when even the slightest erroneous ingredient would prove the entire potion a failure.

Wordlessly, he lowered the temperature of the fire with his wand before stirring the potion, the wand making ten perfect counterclockwise circles above the surface of the simmering liquid. Quickly, he added the congealed hellebore, stirred twice clockwise and twice counterclockwise, and the potion turned a light lavender color. It was finished.

He turned the fire off and let the potion sit, allowing himself a small smirk of satisfaction as he basked in his own intelligence and success. His potions were his life. The subtle sciences and precise art that was potion-making required more than a dunderheaded blunder into the unknown. One needed patience and an acute talent for accuracy and refinement. One needed knowledge and an enviably rare aptitude for memorization. One needed a meticulous technique when dealing with the delicately shimmering vapors.

There was something beautiful – if Snape could attribute the word to anything – about potion-making. One sloppy mistake could destroy the entire concoction, or kill the maker. One accidental slip-up could result in a timeless and magnificent discovery. But precision, and knowing exactly what one wanted, resulted in power – in life, over death, over pain, in glory. Potions were underrated when the simplest one could bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses so completely, in subtle and lissome ways that even the Unforgivable Curses could never execute.

A small glass orb placed on the corner of the work table flashed red, a sign that someone had triggered his wards and was coming down. He had an inkling about whom it was. Quickly, he set about clearing away the few remaining ingredients and bottling the Sleeping Draught, which had turned a rich purple. Just as he was placing the last phial onto a shelf in his storeroom, there was a knock at the door.

"Enter," Snape said curtly, his low voice carrying across the empty lab. The door opened and Albus Dumbledore stepped through.

Unsurprised, Snape closed his storeroom door firmly, placing the usual charms about it in case Peeves ever had the nerve to try to destroy it. Then he turned and nodded to the older man.

"Headmaster," he said quietly.

"Severus," Dumbledore replied. "Poppy reports that she has healed the boy of most of his lacerations and bruises, though he will carry one or two scars until his passing day."

Snape did not want to hear about the boy's passing day, not when it had come so close to being yesterday.

"He had a few broken bones, but those are quickly on the mend, and he is beginning to show signs of a cold, though Poppy says that it may have to get worse before it gets better." Dumbledore examined his young employee, who was staring away toward the wall, as if unwilling to hear about the boy who was his son, but unable to tell him to stop speaking. Dumbledore knew that last night he had had to relive the past in ways he had hoped would remain buried until he died.

"The boy will recover, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, stopping himself from patting Snape's shoulder. "He is not speaking very much, and he will carry scars, emotional and physical, for a long time. But he will recover, with time and love."

"Love," Severus snorted. He turned a glare on the headmaster, and it was accepted because it was deserved. "You thought they would love him as their own. You never gave a damn about the reason Lily never spoke of her sister. It was because she was an abhorrent, evil, worthless, contemptible bitch! Her and her _muggle_ husband! I will _never_ forgive you for putting _my_ son in _her_ hands!"

He whirled away, chest heaving, uncaring that it was the most emotion he had shown in years. "And then you wonder, oh Defender of Muggles, why the Dark Lord so adamantly sought their enslavement." He turned to him again, ignoring the pain in those dark, wise eyes. "See what they do to their young? See how they treat them? Not everyone is capable of such infinite love as you think they are, Dumbledore! In fact, rarely any exist who are!"

"I deserve your hatred, Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, sincerely, "and I deserve your rage. And I know one day, I will deserve Harry's rage as well. And I will accept it, because I made a mistake. Nothing that I ever do will make up for what I failed to do – I failed to protect him. I failed him in so many ways. For that, I will never forgive myself."

Severus snorted. "That does much for the boy, I assure you. He's probably dancing for joy that a wizard will never forgive himself for putting a child through hell and back for four years."

Dumbledore took this and nodded, eyes shining with tears he refused to shed. "A man's regret lasts lifetimes."

And it was this more than anything else, even more than the tears in the old man's eyes, which calmed Severus Snape enough to follow him up the stairs and into the Infirmary.

ooo

It was there that Snape saw his son for the first time.

The little boy was asleep on a large cot, a tray set on an elevated stand beside him. If Snape thought he had had a heart, it would have broken at the sight. He was so pale, so fragile-looking, like the slightest wisp of wind would blow him away. As he had anticipated, the boy had James Potter's messily-styled hair, and the likeness to the man Snape had hated was apparent even then, making Snape second-guess Lily's assumption that the child was, indeed, his.

From the little that was exposed to the cool air of the hospice, Snape tried to gauge how badly his face had been damaged. But Pomfrey was a good healer; his face bore no scars amid the swiftly healing bruises, though Snape blanched at the thought of seeing the rest of him. Fortunately, he was covered from the chin down in warm blankets, though he continued to shiver with the fever Dumbledore had informed him of. His arm closest to Severus was visible, however, palm up, almost an invitation for him to take it.

But he could not. He stiffened at the stick that was his son's arm, for all it could possibly be was skin and bone in the most literal sense. It was covered in rapidly fading bruises thanks to Madame Pomfrey's admittedly admirable healing skills. His hand was so small, too breakable for a five-year-old boy; Severus felt he could crush it in his large hand if he was not careful. And it was with almost a shock of recognition that Severus drew a distinct similarity between his own hand and the little boy's.

Harry, his _son_ Harry, had inherited his father's slim, long-fingered hands.

Or that was how he saw it, at any rate. He wanted desperately to reach out and touch the boy, but Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore stood behind him, and though they were talking quietly he knew that they were watching him. He refused to let them see any sort of emotion, any sort of sign that he was accepting his new role as father.

Because he was not ready yet. He did not know if he would ever be ready.

Instead, he sat beside the five-year-old boy he had helped create, eyes touching the messy black hair (the same hue as his own), the almond-shaped eyes (the same green as Lily's), the thin lips (his), the dip of his chin (hers); one by one, he catalogued the changes Lily would never see.

ooo

Moments later, when the mediwitch of Hogwarts asked him to leave in a ghost-like undertone, he rose soundlessly and followed the headmaster out. He trailed him all the way to his office, where he sat as he had the night before, his face hidden in his hands, his responsibility and his mistake weighing on his shoulders.

"Severus," he heard Dumbledore say softly. He looked up, eyes weary and wary meeting eyes sorry and somber.

"Will you keep the boy?"

He amazed himself with the abruptness of his response, and did not know whether it was this or his own conviction in his answer that made him hate himself a little more than usual. "No."

Dumbledore's bushy white eyebrows arched slowly into his hairline in amazement. "No?"

Severus glared at him bitterly. "No. Do you really think I could be a father?" He chuckled cynically, the sound devoid of any humor at all. "I was a Death Eater once. I worshipped the Dark Lord once."

"You loved a woman once," Dumbledore murmured. "You gave her an inexpressibly precious gift."

"I seduced a woman into having an affair."

"A mistake," the headmaster said quietly, steepling his fingers before him and watching the younger man over his long digits. "There is no need to raise sleeping ghosts."

"There's every need in the world!" Severus snapped. "What will the boy think when he begins to ask me why? Why he has a different name, why everyone is adamant that he has a different father? What shall I tell him? 'Well, son, I screwed your mother and nobody was the wiser'–"

"You will _not_ speak of her in that fashion, young man!" Dumbledore thundered, eyes furious. "It was a mistake and you have both more than answered for it with the treatment of your son!"

Severus quieted. Dumbledore sat back, still glaring at him.

"You are his father, whether you admit so or not. One night long ago, you and Lily came together as friends and left each other with as much guilt as when you had first fallen out. Your son has more than paid for it, so I would thank you to _not_ say that he has paid for naught."

"My son," Snape heard his voice crack slightly but plowed on, "has nothing to do with my mistake."

"He has everything to do with it," Dumbledore said. "Lily and James had tried for years to have a child. James believed it a miracle that they had finally succeeded, and Lily took the truth of you and Harry to the grave. If Harry had not been born, the Potter legacy would have no heir. But Harry lives. You live. You have each other."

"But I can't be his father," Snape told him, trying and failing not to sound defeated. "I don't know how. I don't see how I can be this boy's father." Dumbledore knew what the admission cost the Potions Master, knew that it was not the boy's paternity that he questioned.

Severus rose to his feet restlessly, the need to pace overcoming him. He hated the guilt that ravaged his lungs, that caught at Lily's name in his throat. He felt the memories of that night burning in his mind, brought to the fore by the night's happenings. For five years, he had kept their secret, his silence his testimony to the friendship they once had. Lily's word had been her honor; Harry was never to know that James was not his father. But that was not to be. The truth was that Harry was Severus's son. And he, Severus Snape, could not hide behind a ghost.

"I won't be able to look into his face every day and lie to him," he said savagely. "I refuse to."

"Forgive me for saying this," Dumbledore said, "but you will not have to. He must henceforth grow up with as little confusion as possible. The fact of the matter is that he will be unable to understand the intricacies of the circumstances surrounding his birth until he is much older, preferably of age. And so for now, you must focus on helping to heal his mind." A little of Dumbledore's old twinkle reentered his eyes. "He is a strong young man, like both of his fathers. He will mend."

Severus looked away at the last of his words. _Both of his fathers._

Snape had not realized the extent of the agreement he was already and very unwillingly entering. He would have to share Harry with a memory, whether he chose so or not. Until it was proven that he and Lily Potter were the parents, people would regale the boy with stories of his "father." There was little he would be able to do to stop their tales from reaching the five-year-old's ears.

And somehow, a very bitter part of Snape knew that Harry would prefer the father he had never had the chance to know.

"I can't be his father," he said again, flatly.

"You can," Dumbledore said, a flicker of amusement passing across his sky-colored eyes. "You are. You have already taken the first step." At Snape's questioning look, Dumbledore continued. "You have acknowledged him as your son.

"It will not be easy, Severus, being the father to a child you have not cared for for years, to a child who has been so viciously brutalized and hurt. But as I have said, time and love will heal him. They always do."

"I have no love or affection to show the boy, Dumbledore," Snape said desperately. "I have no heart to give him."

"You may think so," Dumbledore acquiesced. "But you will have more love for him than those muggles ever could."

Snape sat down again, staring at but failing to see his mentor as he thought back to that night, almost six years ago, that he had received his last correspondence with Lily Potter before her death, and how it had destroyed, chained, and embittered him his whole life long.

"_Severus,"_ (he had made sure to note that she had used nothing but his name in her greeting), _"On the last day of July, a little boy was born to me with my eyes and James's hair. James sees our son as a blessing, as a gift, and I want that to be the way he always sees his only son. I will never tell him the truth about you and Harry. I never want him to face the truth of his own sterility or my reckless infidelity. _

"_I am sorry that it had come to that. And I am sorry that we will never be the friends we once were. I will always look at Harry and see you somewhere in his face. Please forgive me, Severus, if Harry never knows who his true father was, for you are now his father only in blood._

"_I still hold you to the promise that you made._

"_Lily." _

ooo

**Author's Note.** I love this chapter. I can't explain why.

Please review.


	5. Arc V: Videre

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

**Author's Note.** Due to the MASSIVE influx of new C2s, I'm going to save those announcements for when I've finished **Medians**.

I was also positively overwhelmed by the story's reviews, hits (almost 8000!), alerts (over a hundred), and C2s. You guys are incredible and I love you. Here's your long-awaited chapter.

To my reviews in general: you completely complete me. You honestly give me the inspiration to go on, and your thoughts are always incredibly to hear. I thank you for always.

"_I can't live, I can't breathe unless you do this with me. Here we go; life's waiting to begin." – _Angels and Airwaves, _The Adventure Final_

ooo

**Arc V: **_**video, videre, vidi, vissus: to see**_

Remus Lupin had declined Dumbledore's offer to stay at the castle for more than a few nights. He was still jobless and searching, and, though he enjoyed staying at Hogwarts, he knew he could not impose on the headmaster for too long. So he had made arrangements to leave in the next few days, once he was assured that the muggles and Harry were taken care of.

He made his way up to the Infirmary for the second time that day. The first time had been just after Snape and Dumbledore had paid the boy a visit, and, like for them, he was sound asleep. After returning to his room for lunch and paying a visit to Hagrid for tea, Remus had decided that a trip to see the boy was once again in order. He carried under his arm a boxed assortment of some of Honeydukes' best chocolate, a gift for when the young boy woke up. He sincerely hoped that Harry was well enough to accept them and see Remus for who he was – a friend.

He knocked on the door before allowing himself entrance. As it was summer, the only patient Madame Pomfrey was catering to was the young boy, and it struck Remus as a worrying sign that a five-year-old boy should not be talking animatedly with his nurse. With his, although albeit limited, experience with children under the age of eight, they were usually talkative, expressive creatures. Granted, Harry had just been through an unspeakably severe experience, not only in the last night but in the last years, but he wondered if anyone had made it clear to the young child that he was now protected. The thought made him pause in remembered grief; the notion that the child felt unsafe, that he was not innocent enough to realize himself in good hands, brought another pang of deep-seated pain.

Pomfrey glanced up as he entered, giving him a narrow-eyed look.

"No visitors, Mr. Lupin," she said sternly. "My patient needs rest and quiet."

Remus had the grace to look ashamed. "I only wanted to give him a gift, Madame, and then I'll be on my way." He gave her a very pleading look, and after a brief, wavering second during which she looked him over, she nodded.

"Be quick about it," she murmured, and he thought he saw a line of worry on her forehead as she bustled away to announce Harry's visitor.

"Harry, dear," she said softly, very unlike the voice she had used with Remus, "Mr. Lupin is here to see you. He's the one who…brought you here last night." There was no mistaking the slight hitch in her voice; Harry's injuries and treatment must have been extensive enough to daunt the usually dauntless mediwitch. She turned to Remus with a nod, her concern inimitable, and hurried not too far away.

Remus came forward cautiously, afraid of what he would find. His breath hitched a little as he came face-to-face with the living, breathing legacy of his best friends, the hope and emblem of the wizarding world at large. The little boy was leaning back against an array of fluffy white pillows, but at least he was sitting up, a tray of half-eaten string beans, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes on his knees. His messy black hair – _James's_, he thought automatically – was stark against the white sheets, and his green, green eyes – _Lily's ­– _bore a cautious curiosity as he eyed his visitor.

Remus forced himself to smile. Harry was small for his age, and very pale, but he was there, he was alive; he was no longer hurt, at least on the outside.

"Hello Harry," he greeted softly, aware of how his slightly hoarse voice would sound to a child. He took the seat to the right of Harry. "My name's Remus Lupin, but you can call me Mr. Lupin, if you'd like."

Harry watched him, eyes gauging him, turning over the man's presence in his head, thinking over his words.

"Hello," he said slowly, as if unused to the words. His voice was so small and croaky from sickness and disuse that Remus felt his heart break. "How do you know my name?" His eyes were wide with surprise that anyone but he knew who he was, that anyone would want to visit him.

Remus stopped smiling and settled for a grin tailored for the very young. "You will find a lot of people know your name, Harry, my boy."

Something flashed in Harry's emerald eyes and he whispered, quite unexpectedly, "Are you my daddy?"

For a moment, Remus was too astonished to say anything. Then, he felt the pressing urge to say yes, _yes, I am your daddy._

But no; he was not going to mess with a child already thoroughly messed with. Severus was the rightful father, or so according to Dumbledore and Snape. He was still somewhat undecided about how he was supposed to think about it. So he shook his head ruefully. "No, no, my dear boy. I am not your daddy."

"The tall man said that my daddy was still alive though…" Harry whispered, looking wary. Remus thought he knew who the "tall man" was, though by all accounts everyone in the castle but the house-elves were taller than the five-year-old.

"He is," Remus assured him. "And I'm sure he'll be coming to see you soon."

"Will I live with him?" Harry asked. Remus felt his hackles rise at the familiar smell of fear. "He won't send me back to…to them, will he?"

He was a grown man sitting beside a little boy, and of the two of them, Harry's eyes remained dry.

"No," he whispered. "No, Harry, you will _never_ have to go back to that wretched place."

Harry continued to stare at him for a moment before nodding and settling back on his bed again. Remus remembered the chocolates and unearthed the box from the folds of his cloak. He held it out to the little boy, but at the sudden movement, Harry flinched away. Aghast, Remus quickly lowered the box to the bed. He had _flinched_; the child had flinched away from him, as if he were afraid he was going to be hit.

He held up his hands slowly, gingerly, proving that he had no intention of putting them anywhere near the boy's body.

"It's a gift," he told the boy. Harry was looking at the box with his head cocked to the side, confused and amazed, as if he could not figure out for the life of him why a complete stranger would want to give him a gift. Harry glanced at him, eyes still cautious.

"Really?" he asked, his stunned tone enough to make Remus want to weep. "A gift? For me?"

"For you," Remus told him. "Chocolates. I hope you like them."

"I've…I've never really had any 'fore." Harry took the box, examining it. "I sneaked some from the fridge once and Aunt Petunia got really mad at me and fed me soap instead." Harry opened the box tentatively, unaware of Remus's incredulous stare at his matter-of-fact explanation. It was as if the child had expected and accepted what had been done to him as a result of an act born of unacceptable hunger and indecent curiosity.

Remus swore to himself that if he ever came face to face with one of those muggles, he would not allow himself to be bound by something as petty as propriety.

ooo

Snape watched the scene taking place with mounting fury. How _dare_ that werewolf go anywhere near _his_ son? He ignored his sensible side for once, which reminded him of the fact that the man had rescued the boy from a _dumpster_. But it was partially the werewolf's fault that any of this had happened, and even Snape in his livid state realized he was grasping straws. The truth was that Snape didn't want anyone near his little boy for a long, long time. He wanted to keep the boy safe from anyone and everyone else.

No one would ever lay a finger on his child again.

ooo

"Lupin," came an even tone from behind Remus. The man looked up, surprised. He still wasn't sure what to think when he came face to face with the man who had given James and Lily their son, whatever the means that it had occurred.

"Severus," the werewolf greeted softly. Harry had looked up at the other man's entrance, and it was for him only whom Snape had eyes for. Remus, sensing the coming conversation, quietly rose and excused himself with a smile at Harry.

"I'll visit you again later, Harry," Remus told the little boy with a smile before walking off.

Harry stared after him blankly, still astonished that anyone had taken the time to give him a gift, let alone see him. He had never received a gift before, and those who promised to see him again rarely felt the need. He had lived his entire life alone and unloved. It was only in his dreams that he found solace – in images of a red-haired, green-eyed woman whose smile was like the sun, of a man whose face Harry sometimes glimpsed in the mirror, of another man whose laugh was like a bark…

He had long ago learned to bottle up these dreams and hide them from his aunt and uncle. The merest mention of the green-eyed woman was punishable by an entire day without food. He had once tried to ask his aunt who the messy-haired man was, but had been stuffed in the shed for a few days without an answer as castigation for his questions.

So he stopped asking questions, and spoke only when spoken to.

He felt tears well up but blinked them away and focused on the hawk-like man that had replaced Mr. Lupin. His skin was almost as pale as Harry's own, and he had dark eyes that Harry felt were looking into his mind. Indeed, he felt something fluttering at the edge of his senses, but he ignored it, directing his entire attention on the adult who stared at him with a kind of fascination that Harry was unused to.

The tall man suddenly appeared behind him, a huge smile sweeping over his face. Harry liked the tall man. He made Harry feel secure and did not push him to talk. He had regaled the little boy with a few stories the night before and had even managed to make him smile a few times, for which he congratulated himself magnanimously, making Harry giggle slightly. He was the only adult that Harry had met so far whom he felt it was okay to speak with. He also loved the funny patterns that he always had on his weird clothes, and his long beard was tickly, his blue eyes the friendliest Harry had ever seen.

"Hello, Harry!" the man greeted. Harry smiled very slightly at him.

"Hello, Perfessor," he said quietly. He could not pronounce the man's name, though he had tried several times. The man had agreed that it was okay to call him "professor" or even "Albus" if he was in a hurry. The kindness of Albus's allowances had shocked Harry, unused to any of the like.

Albus beamed. "I'm very happy to see you awake, young man." His eyes alighted on the chocolate next to Harry. Harry's hand twitched slightly in instinctive guilt, but Albus continued to smile. "Ah, I see that Mr. Lupin left a gift for you. How very kind of him."

Harry nodded slightly before his gaze turned crestfallen. "But he isn't my daddy," he said quietly. He blushed then, looking at the man next to the Professor from beneath long eyelashes.

Severus had turned slightly rigid at the word which constituted "father." He himself had never called his father anything but "father," and only on the rarest of occasions when company dictated it. Otherwise, he ignored or hid from the man, or spoke what he needed to without the pleasantries. His filthy muggle father had needed very little in the ways of excuses to go off at him and his mother.

He shook his head very slightly to clear them from the bitter memories and instead focused again on the little boy. He was a month shy of reaching his sixth birthday but he had the body of a four-year-old, a fact that made him press his thin lips together. Dumbledore had said that it would take time for the boy to heal, but from the little that Severus had gleaned from the first moments he had been in the boy's presence, he knew that it could take more time that Dumbledore was readily prepared to admit.

He had stolen a glance into surface thoughts of the child and had had to stifle his growing look of horror. From what he could see, Harry was terrified. He was more than terrified – he was distrustful and chary, in spite of Dumbledore's assurances that he was safe. He kept expecting the Dursleys to show up and take him away again. He was unable to make sense of his situation, and the only knowledge he held tightly to was that someone had assured him that his father was alive. Every few seconds, a blurry picture of a dark-haired male with round spectacles flitted through his thoughts; Harry's expectation of his father was James, a fact that only served to embitter Severus and strengthen his conviction that he was no fit man for the job of being Harry's father.

Severus glanced at the headmaster, who was now sitting in a chair beside the boy's bed and was chatting amicably with him. Harry kept glancing at Severus curiously, but he was being distracted sufficiently enough that Severus could gather himself and his misgivings and prepare himself to introduce to Harry his father.

In spite of his adamant arguments the night before, Dumbledore had made him see, if not the light, then some semblance of sense: if Severus did not take the child, then he was vulnerable to more than just the Dursleys, a fact that would permanently scar him in the emotional and mental sense. It was not that Severus did not want to protect the child; no, his every instinct now screamed out his newly-found paternal sensitivities, a big part evidenced by his disgruntled state upon finding Lupin with his son. It was, as he had tried to make Dumbledore see, that he did not know the first thing of parenthood. He was not even certain that he had the emotional capacity to tend to the child on more than a distantly platonic level. He had little in the way of experience, and those experiences were not something he wanted to inflict on the little boy.

But Dumbledore had made a very thorough argument, and Severus was not a man without limitations. He had decided at last that, yes, he would take the boy and tend to him until he was fit for a paternity test to prove that they were related, thus shielding the boy from the clawed hands of the unaffected Ministry. But both men were in accord that Severus would need all the help he could get.

Dumbledore seemed to sense Severus's final resolve as he paused in his flow of words and, with a smile, rose from his seat. Harry's green eyes followed him warily; Severus's dark eyes followed Harry.

"Now, young man," Albus said quietly, his smile slightly less wide but the warmth no less subtracted, "I am going to introduce you to someone very special." Severus would have found that statement cynically amusing had the situation been very different. He bottled his unease and stepped forward, unsure of what to do.

"Harry," Albus murmured, "this is your father, Severus Snape."

ooo

Whatever Severus had been prepared to face when this declaration was made, and certainly Severus had had no idea what he was preparing for, _this_ was not it. He was not sure what he had been expecting, was not sure he had allowed himself to ponder the effects this revelation would have on the child in light of everything else he had had to deal with. He had not, for instance, thought that his child would respond with unadulterated hatred, or with unrelenting tears, or with unfathomable happiness. He had not been prepared for the watery, innocent hope in his son's eyes that held a combination of the latter two.

"My…daddy?" he whispered, his voice so fragile, so broken, mimicking a melody lost in Snape's heart.

Albus nodded. "Your daddy," he repeated, stepping backwards and fading away from the world that no longer encompassed anyone but Severus Snape and Harry Potter.

Father and son studied each other. Harry tried to reconcile the images of the man in his head with the man in front of him, could find little but the hair in common, and discarded the picture of the man from his dreams. He found that he preferred the reality over the dream; it was tangible, it was _real_. He could reach out, at last, for his father's touch. He could be loved, the way his classmate Madison's mother loved her, the way Dudley's father loved him. He could _belong_ and be _wanted_. At last. It was all his.

Severus, meanwhile, studied his son's features one more time, and found his hunger insatiable. It was an alien feeling that he could not fully comprehend; it was seeing the stars after years of darkness, or feeling the ocean breeze after centuries of waiting. It was a potion that had taken all of his genius, all of his patience, all of his determination, to create, becoming a masterpiece. He drunk in his son's eyes – the eyes that he had loved once with a love that defined him. He devoured every dip and hollow of his face and neck, and every line on his small hands with his eyes.

"Daddy," Harry whispered, unsure, guarded, hopeful, faithful, reaching out with one of those breakable fine hands, his father's hands.

"Harry," Severus said simply. His voice was not awkward, neither harsh nor deadpan. His eyes were for his child's. He reached for his son.

Father and son touched for the first time.

ooo

**Author's Note.** I'm so sorry I had to leave it there! But you cannot imagine how difficult it was to write the First Meeting, as it were. See, I tried very hard to imagine how a father and son would react at this time, unknowing of each other for such a long time, one barely even able to comprehend the implications of this meeting. I wanted it to be realistic, slightly dramatic, and yet not overdone. I don't know how well I succeeded in that regard, so I very much hope you will all bear with me.

As for their reactions to one another, we have seen the initial impressions. As for secondary and tertiary, the next chapter shall tell.

And please, please, please forgive me for the extra-long delay. I'm a Junior in high school now, and that's always the most important year, so I'm swamped with work.

Thank you for your reviews!! I hope more are forthcoming.


	6. Arc VI: Noscere

**Medians and Curves**

**By Shylee Taregan**

**Author's Note.** I know, I know, I know. I haven't updated since October (September?) and I'm sorry. I've gotten more requests for updates than you can imagine, and more reviews than I could mention. All I can do is thank you for your continuing support (and patience). Now here's your long-awaited chapter. Enjoy.

ooo

**Arc VI: **_**nosco, noscere, novi, notum: to get to know, to become acquainted with**_

The brisk, no-nonsense _clack-clack_ of the Deputy Headmistress's heels on the stone floor as she made her way to the castle's main entrance echoed ominously in the empty halls, bereft as they were of students, teachers, and even the ghosts that haunted Hogwarts. The fettered sun cast an eerie glow through the open windows from behind portentous gray clouds, and a heavy mist had descended upon the castle grounds which sunk a chill deep in weary bones. It was only mid-morning, but it appeared to be mid-afternoon nearing evening; a crow interrupted the sound of the woman's footsteps, but her thoughts remained unbroken as she walked on, her destination nearing.

Professor Minerva McGonagall was not an impatient woman; though most peoples' first impressions of her were impatience and brisk attention, and though she never did anything to curb these notions, there was little truth behind the façade she put on. She encouraged this image of herself to guarantee discipline, for, though she was not exceptionally _patient_, she lost her temper quickly enough when faced with what her colleague called "dunderheads."

At that particular thought, the corner of Minerva's lips twitched upward, but the half-smile vanished just as suddenly; anyone watching would not have noticed at all. Minerva had never seen such wonder in her colleague's features, however hard he had tried to hide it. He had not, when first meeting his son, shown any true outward affection; indeed, if one had not known him as well as Minerva did, then one would not have seen the subtle softening of the lines around his lips, the loss of the tension in his shoulders. She had at first discouraged letting him meet Harry without proper, as Poppy termed it, "training," but Harry was a brilliantly perceptive little boy. Though Severus never once smiled, Harry seemed to do enough internal smiling for them both.

Minerva almost felt her stern countenance bleed away at the memory of that first meeting, but she clung to it in lieu of allowing these particular visitors to see any signs of weakness. Not that she truly cared what they saw or how they interpreted it; it was the principle of the thing. She was Dumbledore's right-hand woman, and she would carry out his orders with all the unyielding endurance she had constructed around herself in all of her 106 years of living.

Upon reaching the Main Hall, Filch stepped aside respectfully, revealing the two people whom Minerva had been rushing to meet.

"Diana, Proteus," she inclined her head at the male and female, their grave expressions boding ill.

"Minerva," Diana greeted, stepping forward with her companion. The emerald-eyed witch was somber, her appearance nearly as harried as Proudfoot beside her. Both wizards had deep purple bags under their eyes, indicating a great lack of sleep, and both were dressed in shabby, patched cloaks that would rival Remus's most favorite. Proudfoot was clutching something beneath his cloak and looking as serious as Minerva had ever seen him.

Casting a quick glance at Argus, who was trying to watch and listen in without being noticed – a task that the old man was not at all capable of – Minerva said, "Come to my office. The Headmaster is out at the moment." She turned, her velvet-green robes swishing around her as she led the way to the fourth floor. There, she opened the door to her office, which screamed pragmatism, and motioned for the both of them to take seats.

Sitting behind her desk, she directed all of her attention to the two of them and nodded.

"I trust you found everything?" she said carefully.

Proudfoot nodded, unearthing what had been hidden beneath his cloak. It was an ancient, much-maligned book of the laws governing Muggle-Wizard relations. The leather-bound cover was torn and tattered, the gold lettering standing out for its endurance through the ages. It was a large book, detailing all the tenets of muggle law in Britain, and all the transgressions that could be committed, all the formalities that must be observed, every agreement and treaty and document that defined the painfully complicated relationship between the magical and non-magical world.

Proteus placed the book on the older witch's desk, opening it to a marked page. Diana gestured to the page, her expression slightly pained.

"As you can see, Minerva, according to the Wizard-Muggle Statute of 1524, we have very little power to do much of anything unless we obtain a grant of permission from the Minister of Magic himself, or at least from the Head of the Auror Department," she explained. Proteus grimaced. "We cannot arrest the muggles because they do not know the details of Harry's magical lineage, and an arrest and sentencing would encroach upon the International Statute of Secrecy…"

"Which, in turn," Proteus interrupted, "could potentially involve authorities from all over the world, if anyone in the Ministry were to get wind of this and decide to make it as hard for us as possible." Diana sat back and nodded, her gaze hardening.

"We could still arrest the muggles and deliver the Dementor's Kiss to each of them," the brown-haired witch told her.

Proteus shook his head. "But there would be an inquiry, and the placement of the muggles would be an issue that even we cannot avoid bringing to the attention of the Ministry."

Minerva absorbed all of this for a moment before saying, "So there can be no suitable punishment until permission is obtained from a power higher than yourselves?"

The two Aurors nodded. "And," Diana continued, "even then, there is much to do before we can make the arrest."

Minerva nodded. "What of the Supreme Mugwump?" she asked. "Would his permission be adequate?"

Diana and Proteus glanced at each other. "We had already thought of that, Minerva," Proteus said quietly. "But it is only adequate if a unanimous decision from the Council is attained."

"The Wizengamot as well, I assume," Minerva said bleakly, no question in her voice.

But Diana shook her head. "Only a majority, even if by one, and because it is the Wizengamot, there is no need for enlightening the Minister. It is your best bet for retribution, Minerva."

"Particularly if discretion is a key point," Proteus added in his deep, resonant voice.

The bespectacled witch sat back, mind calculating. Albus had said that discretion, indeed, was of the utmost importance, and that they needed to use whatever means necessary to acquire the appropriate reprisal for Harry. Albus had said to spare no expense, that though an old man's guilt would never be assuaged no matter the price he would still pay for the biggest mistake he had ever made. Albus had said to do what must be done – and that was what Minerva would do.

For, as much as she loved Albus, she would always harbor that smidgen of resentment against him for not listening to her in the beginning, before it all began.

She nodded, the path ahead of them suddenly clear. The regularly-adjourned members of the Wizengamot numbered thirty-two; seventeen votes would be required. Minerva knew that at least nine of those seventeen had been in the Order of the Phoenix nearly six years ago, and that perhaps five more were beholden to Dumbledore. That left three votes to the imagining, but Dumbledore had worked miracles before.

"It will be done," she said.

ooo

Remus Lupin sat at the Gryffindor Table in the Great Hall, reading the Daily Prophet and indulging in a tall stack of pancakes liberally coated with melting maple syrup. The headlines declaimed the Minister's actions in the past few months as wholly successful as he finally seemed to finish the locating and arresting the followers of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Remus could not suppress his snort of dry amusement; five years later, and the Ministry was still scrambling to clean up the mess that had been made. And yet still, they announce the minister's achievements as almost miraculous.

"Personally, I find that they have not punished the Ministry for their idiocy enough," came a voice over his shoulder. Remus blinked and turned slightly to find Nearly-Headless Nick, his old House ghost. He smiled, slightly sardonically, and turned back to the paper.

"It's a government-owned paper, naturally," he murmured sarcastically. "Of course they would extol the virtues of their precipitously wonderful leader."

"Politics," Nick said, shaking his dangerously-wobbling head.

"Politics," Remus agreed lightly. A short silence followed in which the cold, translucent spirit bobbed languidly behind him, a silence in which Remus grew distinctly uncomfortable. The ghost's need to say something was palpable as Remus turned to face him again. "Are you quite alright, Nick?"

The ghost looked exceedingly discomfited that his purposes for disrupting Remus's breakfast had been so easily identified. He seemed to swallow – a motion Remus found only mildly amusing – before drifting forward (thankfully not through Remus) and settling across from him.

"The…er…boy," Nick said slowly, lowering his voice as though saying something publicly taboo. "Is he…ehm…well…all right?"

Had the ghost been anyone but who he was, Remus would have been profoundly insulted. But since Dumbledore had had the child placed in the infirmary, he had expressly forbidden any of Hogwarts' resident ghosts from going anywhere near it, for fear of frightening the child. Of course they would be interested in the boy's wellbeing; Remus could allow for that.

His face had taken on a very bleak expression, and he spoke with a dark cadence painting his tone. "He is better than he was when I found him," he said carefully. "Madame Pomfrey is an extraordinary witch."

"I did not," Nick said gently, looking concerned, "mean physically, Remus."

Remus glanced up at him, surprised, but said nothing for a moment. Then, "Severus met him yesterday," he murmured. "They seemed wholly engrossed in one another, though not a word beyond their names passed between them." He sighed. "I do not envy Severus the road that lies ahead. I can only hope that I might still be permitted a part to play in Harry's life."

Nick looked profoundly sad. "Indeed. The very idea that James and Lily's son…well…" He shook his head. "I have my misgivings about Severus being a good father to the poor child, but I have never been to judge one wholly on how one seems." He smiled slightly. "What do you think of Severus?"

Remus thought about that for a moment. What _did_ he think of Severus? He still was not sure, and was suddenly aware of how ardently he had avoided the question. He knew Severus to be a pragmatic, strong, very skilled wizard with a tight reign on his emotions and utter disdain for anyone of questionable intelligence. In all their years of schooling together, he never once wondered at the man beyond the façade that he used. By some stretch of the imagination, he could see Severus as a strict but loving father, the kind who rarely showed affection though his love was still obvious.

He did not realize he had voiced these thoughts out loud until Nick chuckled suddenly. "I believe that those are our perceptions of the dour Severus Snape as well." The pearly-white ghost rose and drifted away with a smile. "I do hope you'll stay with us a while, Remus. It is good to have you back."

"Thank you, Nick," Remus returned as the ghost disappeared. His eyes, however, moved to the bleary atmosphere outside the school. Though he was young – the better part of twenty seven years – his world had been overturned numerous times, more than any man should ever have to bear. And yet of all the travails he had faced and conquered and that haunted him still, the one that he could not seem to fathom, let alone accept, was that Lily's son was also Severus's. He had not been lying when he had told Nick that he wanted to remain a part of Harry's life, but he was not sure how he was going to face Severus – truly face him – when the time came.

It would come, though. He knew that.

ooo

Dumbledore's gaze was beginning to get slightly unnerving. The two men had sat unerringly still for the past ten minutes and would undoubtedly be able to continue doing so for a good hour more, but Severus knew that Dumbledore would not ask him to his office to have a staring contest.

Well, then again, perhaps he might.

Dumbledore folded his long fingers together, the first movement he had made since he had sat down, a silent acquiescence that he no longer expected Severus to speak first. He smiled slightly, a touch of the old twinkling in his blue eyes.

"Would you like a spot of tea, Severus?" he asked quietly.

Severus simply stared at him. "Thank you but no," he said shortly. "What is this about, Headmaster? I have work to attend to."

"Ah," Albus murmured. "Of course. Harry?"

Severus held his gaze, though it took effort. "Yes. Harry."

Albus nodded sagely. "Well. I'll get on with it then." He sat back just as a knock alerted them to a third presence. "Come in, Minerva."

The door opened and the stern-faced witched walked in, a grave look on her aged face. "Minerva, you're right on time," Albus greeted.

Minerva nodded sharply. "Proteus and Diana have gone to make the arrangements. All that is needed…" The two wizards shared a long, calculating look, which Severus quickly realized was a Legilimens contact, the likes of which meant that he was not supposed to know.

The knowledge that he was being pointedly excluded made him sneer, but he said nothing, waiting for the secrets to be conveyed. When Albus broke the look and sat down again, conjuring a chair for Minerva as well, Severus knew it was over. He looked at the Headmaster and waited.

"Now that you are both here, we must discuss Harry's arrangements," Dumbledore began. The sudden exhaustion in his voice was not lost on the Potions Master; his eyes narrowed as he felt a sort of sick satisfaction that Dumbledore was still feeling the guilt and the pain that his mistake had cost. He had learned from his many years as Dumbledore's student and then Albus's employee that this great wizard was infallible. When he did make a mistake, however, the consequences of that mistake were often inconceivable.

As they were now. Perhaps it was nature's way of retribution.

"Poppy says that Harry is healing rapidly," Minerva murmured, a touch of pride in her voice. "He is such a strong boy."

"Indeed he is." Albus looked at Severus. "When he is fit to leave the infirmary, we must decide where it is he will stay until his previous…guardians are disposed of, and the Ministry can no longer take him from us legally."

"Not that they would be able to," Minerva muttered.

Albus glanced at her but continued on this vein. "Will he stay with you?"

It took Severus a moment to realize that the question was being directed at him. He blinked, but the rest of his face remained expressionless. "Of course."

Unfortunately, both Albus and Minerva were not as gullible as he would have hoped they had been, for their gazes became acute as Minerva interjected, "If I may, Albus…do you think that would be the best idea at the moment?"

"Of course," Albus said. "The best place for Harry to be right now is with his father."

"Hardly," Severus was unable to stop himself from saying. "You do realize that I do not have any idea of what I am doing, Albus?"

"Nonsense. It is inherent," Albus said with a slight smile. "Well, in women maybe."

"Precisely," Minerva said. "At least allow Pomfrey and me to help you."

"Did you really think I would not?" Severus asked dryly. But Albus was shaking his head.

"You may want to help, Minerva, but I believe that we need to interfere as little as possible in the rearing of Harry. He must become accustomed to his father, and to the notion that he is safe. More than that, Severus must learn to be a father," Albus said with the smallest of smiles. It was quickly gone, however, with his next statement. "We must prepare for the psychological effects of your son's trauma, Severus. He will never be as open or as innocent as most boys, and he must be raised delicately but firmly.

"Furthermore, we must prepare Harry for the wizarding world even as he is raised. He is still young, still open to influence, so this should not prove too difficult for you Severus." Albus smiled.

"Now," he continued, "when James and Lily died, they left a substantial amount of gold behind for when Harry needs it. As I was the caretaker of their will, I am in possession of the key and will hand it over to you."

Severus narrowed his eyes. "No," he said sharply. "That is Harry's, and you may give it to him when he is older. I have savings of my own, and I do not need a ghost's money to raise my son."

Albus frowned at his reference to the Potters as ghosts, but said nothing about it. "As you wish. We need to consider schooling in September as well."

Minerva looked thoughtful. "If this matter of his guardianship is not settled by September, a wizarding primary school would not be appropriate."

"I propose a tutor if that will be the case," Albus told them. Severus swallowed, then looked away.

"We can consider it when the time comes. For now, if that is all…?"

"One last thing, Severus," the old wizard murmured. Severus's black eyes met Albus's blue. "I would request that you remain with Harry in the school for the duration of the summer, to ensure the discretion of the proceedings."

Severus had expected to feel indignant at such a request as to give up his summer to remain in the school, but all he felt was relief. He was not entirely sure why.

He nodded. "Of course." Rising to his feet, he nodded at Albus, then at Minerva. "Good day."

When he was gone, Minerva and Albus sat quietly, the only noise coming from Fawkes as the old Phoenix shuffled on his perch.

Finally, "You did not tell him yet." It was a statement, not a question.

Albus shook his head. "It is not time for him to know."

"He isn't telling you something, either," Minerva said observantly. Albus nodded, his mind far from the room.

"A life for a life," he whispered. "It is the debt that must be paid."

ooo

Madame Pomfrey opened the door and looked briefly surprised to see him standing there. She recovered quickly and stepped aside to allow him entrance.

"Severus, do come in," she whispered. "Step lightly and speak quietly. Your son is asleep."

Severus nodded at the mediwitch as she quietly shut the door and walked into her office. He looked down the ward to the bed near the windows which was separated from the rest of the room by white partitions. He stepped lightly, as Poppy had told him, and slid around the partitions to the seat that was always right beside the bed that held Harry. The little boy was asleep, his child-like snores music to the ears. Severus had not realized that he had looked so harsh until his face softened at the innocence in the child's face.

With an unsure hand, he reached forward slowly, tucking it underneath Harry's small, outstretched fingers. The boy's eyes blinked open blearily as a moment of confusion clouded his senses. Then they cleared; though his face was still filled with sleep, he smiled at his father.

"Daddy."

ooo

**Author's Note** And so. It begins.


End file.
